The Long Road
by Westel
Summary: Sam Gamgee and Bill the Pony have been companions since Bree. They were separated once. Now it seems they must be separated again.
1. Prelude

**Disclaimer:** _I do not, have not, and never will claim ownership, part or parcel, of any and all Lord of the Rings properties. I do claim a deep love for Middle-Earth and all the fair folk who dwelt there. As for writing about them, I just can't help myself._

* * *

Prelude

"Dad, I think somethin's the matter with Bill."

Sam Gardner dropped his pen with a start, chair-legs protesting against the flagstone floor. He hurriedly followed Frodo out into the hall of Bag End and through the kitchen, grabbing his jacket and scarf before exiting by the garden door. Father and son never spoke as they hurried down the lane toward Bagshot Row and the fields and barns beyond, their breaths cloud-white in a hard January freeze.

The barn, a little lop-sided from age, was still snug and warm with the body heat of sundry livestock, and a homely smell of the animals and last summer's hay harvest mingled in the dim light of the structure.

Sam and Frodo moved past the cow stalls toward the center of the building, where various owners had stabled their ponies for the winter. As they approached Bill's stall, the absence of the old pony's welcoming nicker sent warnings up the back of Sam's neck, and he braced himself.

There on the soft hay – as if asleep – Bill the Pony lay, his eyes closed, his body still. Sam knelt beside him and pulled the animal's head into his lap, stroking Bill's mane and neck, searching for a sign of life.

He looked up into Frodo's face, tears pooling in his brown eyes, his voice hitching in grief.

"He's still warm."

ooOOoo

Chapter 1 will follow soon, this I pledge.

* * *

NOTE_: It has been years since I've written anything – I mean __anything__. Got it into my head that I might write a novel (snort). Made notes, drew up the characters, even drew up a story outline. But life got in the way, continues to get in the way. Getting older; realizing that some dreams just don't come true. Frodo comes to mind, and the loss of his beloved Shire. But I am trying, once again, to write about something I know and love – a world created by someone who did realize a dream – or at least part of it - and to whom I shall be eternally grateful. . ._ W-


	2. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** _I do not, have not, and never will claim ownership, part or parcel, of any and all Lord of the Rings properties. I do claim a deep love for Middle-Earth and all the fair folk who dwelt there. As for writing about them, I just can't help myself._

* * *

Chapter One

Sam closed the door behind him, moving as if in a fog. The night had closed around him and his son while they covered Bill's body, and they had walked back home by lamp-light. The trek had seemed to take forever, and conversation unnecessary. While Sam took off his jacket and scarf, Frodo stood just inside the door, his hands jammed into his coat pockets, looking out the window into the garden. Guessing at his thoughts, Sam reached out to grip the lad's shoulder. At his touch, the boy turned and collapsed into his arms, trying so hard not to cry that he trembled in his father's embrace.

"Steady, Frodo-lad. Steady, now," Sam whispered, clearing his throat and patting the boy on the back. They stood there a few moments until Frodo composed himself, then went into the kitchen where most of the family sat around the table, waiting expectantly.

Their father's face told all.

"So the poor lad's gone, then?" Rosie asked, lifting baby Robin to her shoulder.

"Aye, he is," said Sam with a sigh, settling down on the bench next to his sweetheart and lifting a finger to the babe's cheek. "I don't think he suffered at all. He just, well. . ."

"Went to sleep," finished Frodo, feeling all of his seventeen years and the responsibility of being almost a tweenager. Sam looked on him with pride; the boy had been of invaluable help during Rosie's last pregnancy and lying-in, the first difficult birth of their twenty year marriage. Sam remembered his own early years when, after the death of his mother, he had worked so hard to take up his father's responsibilities; he hoped he was more patient with his own boy than his Gaffer had been with him during those years. Sam believed he was; he and young Frodo were very close.

Rosie, having managed a satisfying burp from little Robin, handed him off to Rose, their second-oldest daughter, who had been by her mother's side ever since this child had made his way into the world. Rose planted a kiss on the top of her baby brother's fuzzy head and took him to her parents' bedroom. In the soft firelight, she changed him, dressed him in his nightdress, and placed him in the little crib Frodo Baggins had helped Sam build for the first of the little Gamgees so many years ago. Twelve children had occupied the crib since then. Elanor had been the first, the only child Mr. Frodo had known and held before he went away. But Dad always said there was something of Mr. Frodo in Bag End nevertheless, because of all the things – and people – he had loved while he was still living there.

She waited until the baby was asleep, then returned to the kitchen. The rest of the family – minus the little ones, who went to bed when the sun went down – were still talking about Bill the Pony.

"It's too cold to bury him now; the ground's frozen," said Frodo.

"I know, but we'll be gettin' a thaw in the next few days. It's already warmer today than it was yesterday. We can bury him then. I'll go down to the tavern tomorrow and see if I can get some lads to help us get him on the cart. We'll keep him in the garden shed until it's time, out of the cold." _Out of the cold – and him past carin'. _

"You could call the knacker, Dad. That's what Tom Bolger did when his old bossy died."

Sam, jerked out of his thoughts of Bill being cold, bit his tongue to stop a harsh retort. The boy didn't know any better, was too young to understand his father's feelings for the old animal. "Pippin, son, old Bill isn't just another farm animal. He's my friend. An animal friend perhaps, but as close to me as any friend could ever be, _and_ as loyal – save one. I'd just as soon. . ." He hesitated, took a swallow of his tea. "I'd just as soon call the knacker for one of you." A soft smile flitted across his face. "As if I'd want any samples of Pippin or Goldilocks glue on the market, mind you."

His simple jest lightened the mood around the table, and Rosie announced it was time everyone find his or her own bed for the night. The usual flurry of bedtime preparations ensued, and it was growing late before Rosie and Sam lay in the quiet of their room, their arms around each other until the sheets grew warm. Little Robin lay lost in slumber, checked by his mother before Sam blew out the candle, and the room was serene in the moonlight.

"Are you all right, love?"

"I am, lass. You know as well as I that these things happen; Bill must have been twenty-five years old or more. It was his time, and he went peacefully. I couldn't have asked for a better end for the old fellow."

"I know that. But you've had a great loss. A very great loss. I'm so sorry for you, darlin'." And with that, his wife buried her face in his nightshirt, crying quietly so as not to wake the baby. Sam, pushing down his own grief, gathered Rosie to him and stroked her hair, holding her close until she fell asleep.

ooOOoo

The wind was rising; the sound of it in the bare rosebushes under the bedroom window woke him from a fitful sleep. He got up, careful not to disturb the covers and wake Rosie, who had been up twice to nurse Robin during the night. Pulling on a housecoat, he checked the baby, then left the room, making his way in the dark to the kitchen.

He stirred up the fire and set the kettle over the flames, then walked to the kitchen door to look out. Though still dark, there was a green tinge over the east horizon; morning was on its way. The first morning in twenty-two years that Bill had gone away.

Life seemed to be full of firsts, it seemed to him.

The first time he used a hoe next to his Gaffer; the first time Mr. Bilbo shook his hand; the first time he met Mr. Frodo. . .

The first time he saw Bill the Pony. _A poor old half-starved creature it is.  
_

"Good old Bill. I reckon we knew we were made for each other, even on that first day."

* * *

Author's note: Elanor is not at Bag End because she is currently in the court of Elessar.


	3. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** _I do not, have not, and never will claim ownership, part or parcel, of any and all Lord of the Rings properties. I do claim a deep love for Middle-Earth and all the fair folk who dwelt there. As for writing about them, I just can't help myself._

Chapter Two

That day, Sam found himself tied up with certain business in his office as Mayor. This he did in the comfort of Bilbo's old study, not much changed (except perhaps for the clutter) since the old patriarch had left for Rivendell all those years ago. There was an unwritten code as to Sam's business hours and most of the neighboring hobbitry honoured it, leaving time for private family matters. Today seemed unnaturally long, however, and his mind's eye kept turning to the quiet dark of the shed in the south section of the garden.

Somehow in the midst of his work, Sam had managed to make arrangements for Bill's body to be wrapped in canvas and brought in a cart to the garden shed. If the thaw he'd accurately predicted continued for another day or so, they could finally take his old friend to his final resting place. He should have found consolation in that, but instead found himself fretful, unable to concentrate.

At last the third hour struck in the afternoon, and he put away his work and reached for his pocket watch which, according to fashion, rested on The Red Book of Westmarch on a small table in the corner of the room. It was kept there in its place of honour – on its own stand – and only Sam or Rosie were allowed to touch it. His hand rested there a moment, then on impulse he took the book, sat back in his chair, and opened it. . .

ooOOoo

_It was impossible for me to walk; Strider, Merry, Pippin and Sam took my pack and most of the baggage from Bill the Pony, and placed me upon the poor animal. But even I could tell how improved he was just since Bree; he'd begun to show an affection for us, especially Sam. I think the poor beast's treatment under Bill Ferny must have been very hard for the journey in the wild to seem so much better than his former life.__1_

Sam paused in his reading, his fingers resting lightly on Frodo's flowing script, his finished account of the One Ring and the Fellowship. He let his thoughts drift back to the last journey he made with Frodo, their last conversation together: _"Do not be too sad, Sam. You cannot be always torn in two. You will have to be one and whole, for many years. You have so much to enjoy and to be, and to do."_

No truer words had been spoken by Sam's old friend. After returning from the Grey Havens, he and Bill had traveled throughout the Shire, planting saplings and other beloved shrubs and plants destroyed by Sharkey's bunch. Those days were long and laborious, but Bill had trotted along happily, content to be with his hobbit master. Marriage and terms as Mayor had followed in the after-years, involving trips to Michel Delving, Buckland, and Tookborough (and several runs to the midwife!) – Bill always took him there – by saddle or by cart, the animal was always his companion on the road.

Sam suddenly remembered with a jar that he was to go to Bree next month for a meeting of mayors of the four Farthings. He had looked forward to seeing old Butterbur again, and putting Bill in the lap of luxury in the inn's stables – a far cry from the first time he had been stabled there, just returned from the horrors of Moria. But now he would have to find another means of travel. . .

Sam shut the book with a snap and placed it back upon the stand. "Well, there's nothing for it. I'll have to look into buying another pony," he muttered. Catching a glimpse of himself in a small mirror on the wall, he sniffed, straightened up and walked briskly from his office.

"Rose? Where are you, lass? Anything in the larder?

1 _This is directly from The Red Book of Westmarch, as Frodo would have dictated it._


End file.
